Follow the Wind
by Tahimikamaxtli
Summary: Yasuo has lived his whole life with the wind at his side, but when it turns on him, he must carve his own path to clear his name and seek his own truth. Riven is lost, searching for something without knowing what it is she is looking for. Is it strength? Is it forgiveness? Or is it something else entirely?
1. Prologue: The Road to Ruin

**Follow the Wind**

The Road to Ruin:

The rising morning sun brought no warmth to Yasuo.

He knelt with his back to the rapidly brightening horizon, his knees resting heavily on the place where he had buried his brother. His trembling hands were still stained with Yone's blood, and they were blackened by the earth that he had clawed away to dig his brother's grave. It was a task that had taken him all of the morning, and it was time that he knew he could not spare: if Yone had found him, then the others could not be far behind.

Some feet in front of him, Yone's sword rose out of the dark ground as solemnly as a gravestone, marking the place where its master now lay in a dreamless sleep. The unforgiving autumn wind blew bitingly through his dark hair, and Yasuo looked up with stormy grey eyes that were bright with unfallen tears; the sight of the lonely blade carved fresh notches of indescribably sharp pain into his chest, until they felt as real as if someone had driven a knife between his ribs: each new breath he drew only served to twist it in even deeper, until he was sure that the pain alone would be enough to kill him if he let it.

Until he almost wanted to.

The deep gash across the bridge of his nose – the only strike Yone had managed to land on him – stung in the cold morning air, but the pain was nothing compared to the iron bands of agony that wrapped around his lungs like sharp claws that would not let go; they dug into his very being, gripping tighter and tighter each passing second with a searing iciness, until Yasuo's breath finally ripped itself free from deep inside his chest.

" _Why_?" he shouted at his dead brother, as though he could still somehow hear him. "Why didn't you believe me? Why don't _any_ of-"

Agony tore the rest of the words from him, and he fell forward with a grief-stricken yell that echoed in the wind around him until his throat was raw. His shoulders heaved with loud sobs as he rested his forehead against shaking, blood-stained hands. His fingertips dug harshly into the cool grass, and he tore madly at it as though it were his own hair.

" _Why don't any of you believe me_?"

Frustration whitened the knuckles of his hands as he thought of those who would not listen – of those he had killed trying to convince: ones he had once laughed with, and shared drinks with as friends. As he thought of all those like Yone whom he had buried with his bare hands, the frustration darkened to a caustic bitterness that ate away insatiably at his stomach. There, it welled up like a gathering storm, until black clouds of acidic anger roiled in his gut like thunderheads as he recalled his brother's final words. All this time, he had wondered why those who hunted him were as convinced of his guilt as he was of his own innocence.

And now he knew why.

He had been framed; someone had stolen his wind technique and murdered the Elder with the purpose of blaming him. Black anger flared up in him again at the thought, and Yasuo could taste it in his mouth – there it ground against his teeth, bitter like grit. For years, he had wandered without a purpose – hiding and running from himself as much as from those who chased him. He had run without knowing what he sought, and though his path had been uncertain before, now it was clear.

Yasuo raised his head to look at his brother's sword one last time.

With his last breath, Yone had given to him the only thing he could – the beginning of the path that would lead him back to redemption. Digging the tip of his own blade into the dirt for support, Yasuo stood shakily. If there was one thing that he had learned in his past years alone, it was just how short the road to ruin could be; Yone had tried to teach him that much when they were children, and though he had never bothered to listen before, he knew it now all too well: to devote a life to vengeance was to walk down a steep and winding path of tearing thorns and bottomless darkness. Yone would have tried – _did_ try, all those years ago, with a humble maple seed – to stop him, but his brother was dead now, and there was no other path left for him: he had seen to that much with his own blade.

"I will find them, Yone. I will find who did this, and I will cut the truth from them. I swear it."

Yasuo reached forward with his left hand and gripped the edge of his brother's sword hard, so that fresh blood trickled down the steel. The pain was sharp as the cold steel cut remorselessly into the skin of his palm, but he did not loosen his hold until he was certain that the pain would always remind him of his grief and his guilt.

And of his anger.

Once the others found Yone's grave, Yasuo knew that so long as his name was sullied, he would never be able to return to this place. The thought renewed his resolve, and he steadied himself against the prospect of what could be countless more years of running. Letting go of Yone's sword at last, he turned away from his brother's grave and faced the direction of the coming morning. Blood trickled down the fingers of his clenched fist, and the restless winds blew impatiently at his back.

"On your blood and mine, brother, I will follow the wind to the very end."


	2. Revelations

Revelations:

" _Brother?"_

" _What is it, Mako?"_

" _How much longer?"_

" _Not far. We're almost there."_

" _I'm tired, Shiro."_

" _I know. Why don't we take a break?"_

" _Okay."_

" _Are you hungry?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Here. Have some of my bread."_

" _Okay."_

" _That's all we have left, okay? So no more asking until we get to the next town."_

" _Okay, Shiro."_

" _Come on, let's keep moving."_

" _I'm tired."_

" _I know, Mako, but we can't stay here. We have to keep moving."_

" _I can't, Shiro."_

" _Get up, come on. I'll carry you."_

" _Okay."_

" _I'm only going to carry you for a little bit, okay?"_

" _Okay."_

" _Just until you can walk again, okay?"_

" _Okay."_

" _Don't fall asleep, okay?"_

" _But I'm cold, Shiro."_

" _I know, Mako. I know."_

…

Yasuo woke up cold.

There were tears in his eyes, and he realized distractedly that he must have been crying in his sleep. It was a long while before he finally blinked them away. It was still dark in the little shack, and he could hear the wind howling mournfully outside. He sat up slowly, shivering slightly beneath his thin blanket, and the cold crawled up his arms like shadows. His hands trembled from more than the chill as he rubbed them vainly against the icy skin of his arms. Lowering his head, he exhaled shakily into his folded arms. His right hand pulled itself free, and he reached like a drowning man for the half-empty bottle of sake beside him. The warmth was fleeting, but it was enough as he closed his eyes hard and tried to forget the voice of his dead brother.

…

The storm had passed the next time Yasuo awoke, for which he was grateful. Ionian winters were renowned for their beauty, but Yasuo found it rather difficult to be overly fond of the cold and the chill when all he had to guard against the snow was a tattered travelling cloak. He had only purchased it some weeks ago, but the elements were already beginning to take their toll on the thick wool; it had begun to tear and fray in too many places to count, but it was the only cloak that he had left, and he could not afford to give it up. He had already spent what little coin he had left on the cloak and some supplies, and both were quickly wearing thin. The storms had not been kind in the past month, but thankfully, they had calmed somewhat that week.

The howling winds from the night before had all but vanished, and a tranquil silence had settled over the little shack. Though he felt marginally better-rested, Yasuo groaned loudly as he began to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. His neck was stiff and his head pounded dully, but his brother had not revisited his dreams for the remainder of the night. He lay sideways on the half-rotten floorboards, and he could feel the empty bottle of sake digging into his ribs. With another loud groan, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. The world tilted dangerously before him as he did, and he closed his eyes momentarily. The hand that rested against the floorboards trembled until he steadied himself with deep breaths, willing his mind to clear itself. Slowly, he felt the nausea begin to leave him, and he opened one eye tentatively. The bright morning light cut like knives through the many gaps in the walls, driving even more sudden, sharp aches of pain into his throbbing skull.

Lifting one hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, he used the other to push himself to a standing position. He wobbled for a moment, uncertain, before he finally managed to find his balance. By the light of the rising sun, he could make out the details of his shelter better than he could the night before. It was little more than a single room, with wooden floorboards and walls that had long since rotted away in places. There was a pit dug into the center of the room for a fire, which Yasuo had made use of the night before. The roof was sloped and sagging in places, but to his relief, had not yet collapsed under the weight of the snow. He could not be sure, but it had likely belonged to some long-gone hunter, and he wondered if he had fled or had been killed in the Noxian invasion. Whatever his fate had been, Yasuo was grateful; to call it comfortable would be an overstatement, but it had been the best shelter he had found in a long time. It had been an uncharacteristically generous stroke of good fortune that he had stumbled upon the little shack; without it, he might very well have frozen to death in the blizzard outside. Katakari – his destination – was only an hour's walk away, and the shack was well-hidden from the main road. His blade lay beside where he had slept, and the rest of his belongings were safely tucked away into a corner of the shack.

Staggering to his rucksack, he withdrew a short piece of flint and set about reviving his fire. It was slow work – though the shack had stopped the worst of the snow, what wood he had gathered was damp. It was several long, frigid minutes before Yasuo finally succeeded in lighting a meager fire, and he sighed in relief as warmth began to return to his fingers. He set a small tin of snow to melt on his resurrected fire as he gathered the rest of his things, rummaging around in his rucksack for the few pieces of dried meat that he had left. They were cold, and tough, but it felt good to have food in his belly after a night of only sake.

He waited until the snow in the tin had melted, and he drank the cold water greedily. It eased the pain thrumming in his temples, and helped to clear his mind of the fog that remained. After a moment, he glanced down at the distorted reflection that wavered in the bottom of the tin.

His long hair was dirty, and fell in long, knotted strands around his shoulders; he had kept Taliyah's piece of twine around his wrist to mask his appearance as much as possible, and had forsaken tying his hair back. It was also helpful that he had not shaved for several weeks now, and had an uncharacteristically thick covering of facial hair on his cheeks. He felt a stab of discontent as he studied his own appearance; he felt as though he fit the part of a disheveled drunk just a little too well for his own comfort. If there was anyone left in Katakari who remembered him, it would be with the expectations of a samurai, not a wandering drunkard. Scowling at his reflection, Yasuo downed the rest of the water left in the tin.

The air was sharp and cold when he stepped outside, kicking aside the snow that had gathered against the door. The crisp morning air bit at his lungs, and the sky was as blue and as free of clouds as a forest pool. The sight of the fair weather raised his spirits, and he inhaled deeply, exhaling loudly through his mouth. He had been on the move for several weeks now, slowly making his way back north through backroads, safely out of sight of any curious eyes. It had not been an easy journey – trudging through thick forests that were blanketed in places by several feet of snow – but it had been years since Yasuo had made any headway on the identity of Elder Roku's killer, and Yone's revelation had given him all the energy he needed to keep moving. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of the snow, Yasuo felt his brow knit together as he thought back to his brother's words.

 _The Elder was killed by a wind technique. Who else could it be?_

It had always struck him as strange that his pursuers were so infuriatingly assured of his guilt; none had ever given him the time to plead his innocence before they invariably attacked. No matter how many times he begged to explain himself, none would ever heed his words. He had wondered many times over the past years as to why they were so adamant, and thanks to his brother, he now knew why. Begrudgingly, he had to admit to himself that the evidence was not favorable, and that the case against him was more than compelling. He wondered whether would have thought the same of Yone, had their roles been reversed. No one but he had mastered the wind technique enough to wield it as effectively as he did.

In retrospect, the revelation was so obvious that Yasuo was furious with himself that he had not made the connection on his own. It was the simplest thing in the world now to understand that his pursuers had had such a clear show of evidence as to his guilt, which was further compounded by the fact that he had fled immediately after his capture.

 _Only a guilty man flees his sentence_ , he thought darkly to himself, pressing his knuckles against his lips.

If he had been able to come to the revelation on his own, perhaps he would have been able to track down the true killer before Yone had found him. He had wasted years wandering fruitlessly – years in which the true killer could easily have fled Ionia altogether. Cursing himself, Yasuo's hand curled into a fist beneath his nose. After all, there could not be too many suspects to consider; he had been convinced his whole life by the masters that he had been the only one in a generation to have mastered the wind technique. It was clear now that they had been lying – that there was another before him who must have done the same.

 _Cast out, most likely_ , pondered Yasuo slowly. _With his name stricken from all the records. Was his shame as great as my own?_

It was the only explanation, he decided. Only a _ronin_ – an Unforgiven, like himself – would have brought enough shame upon the masters to warrant such action. For an instant, Yasuo wondered whether this unknown student had abandoned a post like he had, and let his ward die as he had. Whatever the case may have been, Yasuo knew that the only place to find the answers he needed would be back at _Nan Shushu Kazekata_ – the School of the Soaring Dragon – where he had learned the technique of the Breath of the Dragon.

And so, he returned to Katakari, to the very heart of his youth, where he and Yone had grown up after the death of their parents. It was dangerous to be so close, he knew – doubtless, those who remained in the school would have been alerted to his treachery, and warned by the Ionian government to keep open eyes for his return – but if there remained any chance of finding new leads as to true killer, they could only be in Katakari. And there was anyone who still maintained any last vestiges of his innocence, it would Master Dao; the man had been like a father to he and Yone, and Yasuo knew that if he could only convince Master Dao, he perhaps finally had a chance as convincing the others.

Though returning to Katakari had been difficult, he had made respectable progress in the past week, despite the storms. Sticking to the backroads and staying off of the main path had been exhausting, but his blood boiled with anticipation at finally moving forward in his pursuit of the truth. For the first time in years, he knew where to place his next step, even if it meant returning to the place of his teaching, where he and Yone had spent their youth learning the path of the samurai. Without a doubt, the newest generation of students would be training when he arrived, and the prospect of facing his old master reminded him unwillingly of his own wayward student. Out of habit, he glanced at the length of twine that was wrapped around his wrist, and Taliyah's face rose unbidden before him. Yasuo swallowed hard as the heavy shame of failure beat into his stomach. The cut across his left palm began to itch suddenly, and he clenched the hand into a fist.

 _I already failed my student – I will not fail my master,_ he resolved steely.

Seized with the urge to get a move on, he turned and stalked back into the shack. Kneeling beside his things, he tied his short knife to his belt, securing his greaves covering the rest of his armor and his sword with the blanket he had slept in. The shack was at what he hoped was a safe distance from any common paths, but he was not willing to take any chances that an early-morning would not stumble across his possessions. After a moment of deliberation, Yasuo realized that it was still possible that whoever had built the shack to begin with could return, and he pushed his things into the darkest corner of the single room. There, hopefully, they were sufficiently out of sight.

Standing, he drew his cloak around his shoulders. Thankfully, it was still cold enough that he could wear it without drawing any undue attention or suspicion, and it would serve to hide the most obvious indicator of his identity – the intricate dragon tattoo that ran down the length of his right arm – from any curious eyes. Especially in Katakari, wearing the mark of the School of the Soaring Dragon would be as good a giveaway as his blade itself. It would also hide the short knife that was tucked into the waistband of his pants, where he could reach it with ease, should the need arise. With a rueful sigh, he picked up the nearly-empty bottle of rice wine from where it lay on the floor. As he had hoped, there was still a mouthful of the alcohol left, and he swilled it in his mouth before spitting it down the front of his cloak. He had spent more than his fair share of evenings in bars, and had all but mastered the guise of a drunk returning home after a long night out. The smell of alcohol hung around him, and Yasuo muttered a short prayer to his lost dignity as he began to trudge his way through the snow.

Looking the part of a proper drunk, he set off in the direction of Katakari.


End file.
